Falling Apart
by Very Special Lee
Summary: As John leaves the army he not only leaves the battlefield and a part of his life behind but also a good friend. A friend, who finally succeeds in contacting him and who brings back memories of the war.
1. An Unexpected Call

**Falling Apart**

******A Sherlock fanfiction written by Admin Regulus**

**Before this story begins I would like to thank every soldier who has, is or will be fighting for their country to assure peace, freedom and safety.  
May God protect you from danger and harm, may he help you to look pass the fear and dark times you might experience and may you never run out of the tiny bit of soldier's luck.  
Take care and thank you for your service. **

It was a day like every other one.

The kitchen table was covered in pictures of Sherlock's latest case (apparently a veteran trying to revenge his fallen friend, John had decided to stay out of it) and of notices in an almost undecipherable handwriting of the world's one and only Consulting Detective.

John was careful to move the photographs merely for a few inches to find some space for his cup of tea, which was quite hot. He frowned inner side as Sherlock suddenly clapped in his hands, hardly suppressing a chuckle "Brilliant, oh it's Christmas!"

"I thought you'd dislike Christmas," said John looking at his flatmate, raising a lonely eyebrow. "There's a lot of sentiment, after all."

Sherlock, however, just ignored his words and grabbed his coat and scarf, leaving the 221B running. Sighing quietly John looked after him and took a draught of his tea, burning his mouth. Congrats, John, he thought cynically. Just then his mobile rang; an unknown number appeared on the screen. "Watson."

"Jamie Cooper speaking, John," said a calm voice of a man on the other end.

Almost instantly John straightened his shoulders as he recognised the caller; putting his cup back onto the table he stood up and walked over to the window, glancing down Baker Street which was as busy as ever. Calm down John, no one is planning an ambush on you. It's silly, isn't it? After all those months you spent miles away from the war you still cannot forget the violence and the abyss of human nature that you've seen.

A pleasant familiar warmth spread through his entire body coming out from his heart. "You're still alive..." he whispered unable to held back those words, barely believing that he was actually speaking with a friend though he had experienced many unbelievable things during the last year he had been living with Sherlock.

"Indeed, yes I am." John could hear a bitter laughter. "More or less."

"What do you mean?" asked John, clenching the hand which was not holding the mobile to a fist. In his mind he could see images of a young, dark-haired man being shot by a sniper. And as he looked down at his hand he thought for a moment the blood of those who he had been unable to safe and of the man calling him was still on his hands.  
He shook his head violently to get rid of these thoughts.

"John, calm down mate," said Jamie warily. "I'm currently in London on leave for a few weeks and will be promoted a Lieutenant by the end of this week." There was a tiny trace of pride in the voice.  
And John found himself speechless for a few seconds, and then he said, after swallowing hard "Congratulations, Jamie."

But he knew this was not truly the reason why his friend had called him, so he waited and Jamie took the silence on the other end of the line as a request to continue.

"As you might know my family can't- won't be able to attend. And I was wondering whether you-"  
"Have time?" helped John with a small smile on his face. He could still remember how they first met in the Tube somewhere near Tottenham Court Road.

It had been late autumn and the rain and wind was almost unbearable to endure. The people were all hurrying to their destinations and ignoring the boy, maybe about seventeen, leaning against the wall. "Excuse me, sir. You don't have a penny to lend for a hot drink, by any chance?" he boy had called after John, who had been the only one to look at him for longer than all the other and had been, as it was his duty as a doctor, checking for illnesses or other signs of injuries.

The shabby clothes of the boy were soaking wet and he was barely holding back his shivering.

"I'm afraid you won't get a hot drink for just a penny," he had replied calmly. John had seen the flash of shame and resignation in the boy's eyes. "I'm a doctor," he said in the same quiet and soothing voice. "And as a doctor I'd advise you to change your clothes otherwise you'll get the flu and die eventually out here, so come along."

Shrugging the boy had picked up his bag and followed John, his eyes always observing his surroundings as they went up the stairs. And John could not blame him for that- the world was a cruel place to be left alone in.

"I'm Jamie, by the way. Jamie Cooper," the boy had introduced himself, uncertain whether he should offer his dirty hand to John. But John had taken it anyway, "John Watson at your service."

They had visited a small café. There John had been in his flat right above the bar and had gotten some of the clothes which he did not fit in anymore for Jamie to change into. As Jamie returned, the owner and friend of John had brought hot drinks and a proper meal for the boy.

John had glanced at the boy, frowning slightly: the shirt hung loosely around Jamie's abdomen and he needed a belt to keep the jeans from slipping down his hips.

"So, why are you living on the streets?" John had asked after Jamie had finished eating.

Slowly Jamie placed his hands which were still red due the cold around the cup filled with hot chocolate. He had shifted warily under John's gaze and had become almost imperceptible paler.  
"I- Father kicked me... out?" he had said in a small voice and it sounded more like a question than like a statement. John had heard the underlying fear in his voice. "But I've finished school with A-levels, so it's fine... I guess."

"Which courses did you take?" had John asked still in his calm manner, though he wanted to tell the father of this boy quite a story! How could a parent possibly abandon their own child?  
This world was really going to the dogs.

"Biology, English Literature, Law, Drama and Psychology," Jamie had answered after a long pause. His voice had been very quiet and had been shaking like hell. He had shrieked back with unhidden angst in his eyes as John had dared to reach out for his hand to support him. A whimper had escaped his pale lips and John had instantly withdrawn his hand.

"I won't hurt you," he had said reassuringly. He had felt his subconscious trying to convince him to take the boy in with him, but he knew it was impossible as he would soon leave for his first tour to Afghanistan.

Jamie had looked away and had whispered "Don't. In the end everyone does, and all words are nothing but empty."

After they had been talking for long hours and John had persuaded Jamie that he had nothing evil in mind and would not hurt him ever, Jamie eventually had moved in with John and enlisted himself to the Royal Army, which granted him a good education in the field of medical treatment and helped to re-build his self-esteem.

One day in November, just weeks before John would leave to Afghanistan and Jamie to Medical School, latter had returned home with a signed document that stated he was now legally under John's guardianship. The document also had the signature of his birth-father and John did not ask how exactly Jamie had succeed to get it, but he had nevertheless treated the bruises on Jamie's face and neck, following the Don't-ask-don't-tell policy.

John could still see the happy smile on Jamie's face clearly before his eyes as Jamie said "Well, yes. I mean, I can totally understand if you have got better things to do and can't come either. I'm sorry. I- I shouldn't have called. I-"

"Shut up, idiot!" John cut in. "This is the first time I heard anything of you in a few years and I've told you before not to apologise for your bloody decisions, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Jamie laughed quietly and soon John joined in.

"Do you think you're ready for this, Jamie?" asked John getting serious again.

They both knew what he meant by that: Are you ready to lead your friends and brothers in arms to their death? Will you be able to be in charge of a hopeless mission doomed to fail? Do you believe you'll be able to cope with your men dying right in front of you because you did not manage to finish off hostile snipers in time? And it will be your very own fault. You might fail them, and you will never be even able to apologise because the dead do not tend to hear.

"I do not know," was the sincere reply after some moments of utter silence.

"How have you found out my number anyway?"

Laughter erupted on the other end. "Oh, I was kidnapped by a man called Mycroft Holmes and he gave it to me along with some files for his brother, concerning some high-ranking military guy."  
John smirked. "Alright, I'll bring Sherlock with me."

"Drag him if you have to," said Jamie. "Listen, I got to go. My boyfriend and I'll be meeting in thirty minutes. Let's say on Friday where we first met around eleven o'clock to check things?"

John nodded, but then he remembered that Jamie could neither see nor hear his nod and he hurried to say "Yes, yeah, I'll see you there."

As the line died he stared at the mobile in his hand, not believing what just happened. This had been... unforeseen.

A smile appeared on John's face and he returned to his cup of tea, which was cool by now, thinking that Friday would be in two days and that he should better inform Sherlock not to take a case until Monday, so that he would have time to accompany him to the promotion.

He decided not to ask Mycroft how exactly he had found out about his relation to Jamie. This man knew everything and probably even knew what blacked out missions of the Royal Army had been about, not to mention that he would be most likely involved when it would come to stop the Third World War from happening.

As he was done with surgery for this week and had nothing to write about on his blog he turned on the television, not really watching. His mind was far away and not aware whether the Doctor defeated the Master or not. Taking a deep breath John felt the unmistakably hot, burning and sandy air of the damned desert entering his lungs.

The last time he had seen Jamie was as he himself was lying on the hot sand in the middle on the desert, slowly but for certain bleeding out to death. Dust was blinding him, pushing the furniture of 221B out of his perception until he was not sure anymore about what was real and what was not.  
The fighting had not stopped around him, but the noise of battle had become much quieter, it sounded so far away. If John had not felt such an immense, agonising pain in this moment as he had pressed his hand with all strength he could gather onto the gaping wound in his shoulder, he would have laughed at the irony.

He was supposed to fix the injured, not the other way round! A doctor tended by his own kind. How laughable.

It had taken him so much discipline not to close his eyes.

With a thud someone fell down next to him, maybe two metres away. Though John had been barely able to breathe anymore he got up, crawled over to his comrade and began to check for the vitals. His vision had blurred a few times but he was somehow able to blend the throbbing pain in his shoulder out of focus as he made sure the solider under his hands would be able to live beyond today.

The shouts and explosions around them, the bullets buzzing through the air and the fast heartbeat pounding in his ears had seemed so unearthly.

Soon his hands and clothes had been drenched in blood, some of it his own, and he had panted for breath as the weight on his shoulders and the tiredness he felt had increased drastically.

A hand had been placed gently on his right shoulder. "Captain Watson..." a voice had said, trying to get his attention. "Stay with us, sir."

His hands had gotten numb.

"John!" He had felt someone tending his wounds and his eyes flattered open. "Don't you fucking dare to die on me," had growled a young medic. And some part of John's detached mind had recognised him as his ward. He had looked down at himself and all he saw was blood.  
Red, dark blood. His leg was covered in it, but strangely enough he did not felt any pain.  
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw how the puddle of blood around him got bigger.

To lose more than forty percent of his total body blood is to be considered fatal and life-threatening; John had remembered the words of his professor vague.  
He had never been aware how much blood was actually within himself. Why didn't it stop?

"Murray, I can't- it doesn't stop..." John had heard the desperation in the voice, but he genuinely had not known where this emotion had come from.

He had not felt a thing. There had been only pure emptiness and a hole in his chest. A dark, deep hole. It had been freezing, so damn cold. And it had felt like his life was vanishing through this very hole, vanishing into nothingness.

"It's alright, laddie. Just have a look at Williams. I'm taking care of the Captain..."

He had been shaken softly and someone had grabbed his wrist like to get hold of his pulse, which had gotten weaker and weaker any moment. _Please God, let me live._

  
Gun shots rang out and John's eyes snapped open as he heard cries and pleas. His hand instantly reached for the gun in his belt and he pointed it right at the direction from where the shots had come, before he became aware that it was merely something happening on telly. Right, he was in London. UK. At 221B Baker Street, alive and safe and everything was fine.

His British Army Browning L9A1 slipped through his cold fingers and fell to the floor.

Before he knew he was burying his face in his hands, curled up on the sofa Sherlock used to sulk on. No, he was not crying. To be honest, John was not even sure whether he had still tears left to shed. Soldiers did not cry.

Somehow he must have fallen asleep while rocking back and forth, shoulders shaking, because as he woke up it was already semi-dark outside and he felt someone watching; no, gazing intently at him with those piercing grey eyes.

John sat up straight, wincing as pain shot through his body. His bad shoulder was stiff as hell and his fingertips felt numb.

Sherlock's eyes clearly showed interest and curiosity, but John simply had no nerve to deal with the genius and brilliant flatmate of his right now.

Not like he hasn't deduced everything by now yet, he thought.

"Good news?" Sherlock stated, though he was eager to let it sound like a question for the sake of his friend's sanity.

John, however, just stood up and headed to the kitchen to make himself some tea (Tea was able to solve _everything_, at least in John's perception though only when you were able to forget about the actual problem.) as he realised his RAMC cup saying "In Arduis Fidelis" was standing on the table next to the sofa. It was still steaming and after a questioning glance at Sherlock, who made a prompting gesture towards it, he turned sharp and picked the cup up, taking a draught of it he said "Well, yes. Good news, thanks God."

"Concerning someone you knew in the army, I take it?" Sherlock muttered, suddenly appearing next to John who had to fight back the urge to give his friend a hook.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John and moved to the end of the sofa furthest away from Sherlock. "I would have told you eventually, you bloody git. There's no need to interrogate me."

"Bloody git?" teased Sherlock. "I really thought you as a former soldier and doctor would know more and better words to insult someone..."

A smirk flashed over his thin lips, but John knew his friend was bored and his behaviour would just get worse with each minute he spent unoccupied.

It was quite surprising Sherlock had let him sleep on the sofa until he woke up by himself anyway.  
"'Course I do. But I wasn't certain whether you'd be appreciate being called things you don't understand," gave John back, smiling.

Sherlock crossed his arms and would not say a word for the next hour or so.

"When you're done pouting," John said, after checking his e-mails and looking up the latest military news from Afghanistan and Iraq as well as from Kosovo and Kabul. His friends were all somewhere down there and John, pulled back by Jamie's call into the time at the troops, prayed they were all safe and alive. "I would like to ask you not to take any case till the end of this week."

Immediately Sherlock's head shot up. "Why- what- no!"

"Oh yes, you won't. A very close... friend, more like member of my family, is currently on leave and has some information for you about this guy from last week, what was his name again? Never mind-"

"Christopher Evans," growled Sherlock, he was looking like a child who had been taken away its favourite toy.

"And I would actually like to spend some time with him before he goes back to the war zone," John clarified, ignoring Sherlock's "I don't need you to solve a case." Damn, this hurt. Sherlock was clearly jealous.

"Also I want you to meet him..." he added after a while. He looked at Sherlock, who wore an unreadable mask on his pale face.

"He is important to you and was with you the day you were shot," said Sherlock finally.

"How do you-"

"It's obvious John." And Sherlock gave him _The Look_.


	2. Not A Civilian

On Friday John was woken up by Sherlock playing his violin at four fucking o'clock in the damn morning.

He glanced at gun in his left hand and put the safety back on. Then he put it under his pillow again.  
After some moment of silence from below he heard an explosion and cursing and knew that he had to go downstairs to give Sherlock the blasting opportunity to ruin his nerves before he would accidently wake up Mrs Hudson too.

Reluctantly he stood up, noticing with a frown how damp his shirt was and that he must have had been dreaming again, otherwise he would not have been holding the gun so tightly and Sherlock would not have played as badly as he had.

Though Sherlock always pretended not to care he had accidently, as he claimed it to be, made noise. Of course, with absolutely no intention of waking John up and pulling him out of his nightmares when he had moved in and was still suffering from PTSD in the extreme he had.

Sherlock would not only wake him up in the middle of the night, but would drag him all across London to exhaust his flatmate so much that he was unable to think about anything concerning the war.  
Indeed, Sherlock did not care at all.

But John knew better. He had seen the fear and the trace of betrayal in his friends eyes as he stood in the darken swimming pool room wearing an explosive vest, and he had heard the barely suppressed concern in Sherlock's voice as he had asked whether he would be alright.

Sherlock had "died" for him; if he would not care then he wouldn't have jumped.

John took a deep breath and closed the window shut, before taking fresh clothes out of the wardrobe and heading downstairs to take a shower. His limp had returned.

He spent the morning trying to prevent Sherlock from shooting the wall (again), setting the kitchen on fire (again as well) and from making himself lose his temper- a hopeless undertaking.

Unfortunately he forgot to keep an eye on the time while he was doing his best and he had to run to avoid missing his appointment with Jamie. His limp was gone as soon as adrenaline was pumping through his body. Good ol' army instincts!

He took the Jubilee south and got off the line at Bond Street, where he changed to Central eastern. This anxiety to meet Jamie again went so far that he had to clench his hands tightly to fist to prevent himself from tapping his fingers onto his knees as he passed Oxford Circus. Getting off at Tottenham Court Road John hurried to walk up the stairs and he was engulfed in a very tight embrace before he even realised. It took him only mere seconds to return the hug with the same strength.

"I'm back... dad," croaked Jamie, still not loosening his grip around the smaller ex-soldier, who was just seven years older than his "son".

Both were glad Jamie had made it back home alive again.

The tiny bit of "soldier's luck" had helped him to survive not fewer than four hostile attacks, a suicide bomber, and an ambush at the Major of his Unit and several unpleasant incidents on patrol as well as being kidnapped. And all while remaining mentally strong and healthy.  
Jamie had, just like John, seen a lot of violent deaths and injuries down there. But he loved the adrenaline, which was running through his veins and the tickling in the rest of his body when he was facing danger. Civilian life must be so boring.

John assumed that Jamie would have immense issues to adjust to civilian life once he returned from his last tour.

As they parted after long moments John held Jamie a bit away from himself to have a closer look at him: Jamie's dog tag hung loosely around his tanned neck and on his left breast was a patch which read _Cooper_. The insignia of rank on his shoulders clearly stated he was a British Second Lieutenant.  
He was wearing a genuine British Royal Army fatigue; similar to the one he had been wearing himself back in the Middle East when he had not been on patrol and the badge of the RAMC was sewed onto the fatigue above his chest. There was also a Red Cross on his left arm.

His general appearance was one of a soldier and army doctor and the muddy and still dusty combats, which he was wearing, did not help to decrease this impression.

Jamie ran his hand through his short black hair, feeling obviously uneasy as some people stared at him, as far as John could deduce. And he could absolutely relate to that. After all Jamie had spent almost seven years in the army on a stretch by now (spending most of these years on operations) and since he was doing exceptionally well there was no doubt of the promising career which was ahead of him.  
"It's good to see you again and... alive," said John, patting Jamie's shoulder.

Few were left of the boy he had met all those years ago: the green eyes seemed haunted, hollow and he was even skinnier and his tanned face wore a grim expression, almost cold and distant but nevertheless bloody determined. And then he saw a silver ring on Jamie's left hand. His eyes widened.

"You're married?" he asked finally.

Jamie blushed. "Well, yes, since Wednesday afternoon, at least on the paper. We- Robert and I don't have money to afford anything else and as we don't like all this hype about marrying... I'll tell you more over a cuppa."

Laughing and chatting over trivial things they went to a café John sometimes visited with Sherlock and it became apparent that Jamie had literally no knowledge about anything that had changed in the last years in Britain. Just like Sherlock he did not know who the premiere minister was, what was happening in the economic lately or in the politics.

"It doesn't matter!" exclaimed Jamie as they sat down on a table from which they could see the entire room, including all doors and the large window front as well as all other customers. "Look, it wouldn't make any difference to me, John. All I care about is that my missions go well and that everyone stays alive."

"At least you know that the earth's going around the sun," muttered John under his breath, but Jamie heard it anyway.

"Well, really. Who doesn't?"

John raised a lonely eyebrow and sighed quietly, and then he erupted in laughter and Jamie getting who he meant joined him. They could barely speak properly as the waitress came to take their orders.

"I thought you were dead," said John after an awkward moment of silence. "You didn't contact me as you promised in the medic tent- oh, yes I do remember. You gave me pain reducers and told me you wouldn't forget me and that I shouldn't give up now or you'd kill me."

Jamie tilted his head slightly and then reached into his bag; he pulled out a pile of letters all with John's name on them. "I tried to contact you, but I couldn't via phone and I never received an answer to any of my letters as you can see! When I met this Holmes guy he told me he wanted you to get better, whatever that means, so he prevented you from receiving my letters..."

He thanked the waitress for the hot chocolate and then continued to speak. His voice was lower and more flatly this time though.

"I was devastated. Thought you didn't survive the transport home- what?"

John had narrowed his eyes at Jamie's words.

"You can't deny that you looked like death as you left," said Jamie hoarsely. "Firstly, you lost so much blood that you almost died under Murray's hands and then you had to catch fever."

The phone in John's jacket buzzed. Puzzled he apologised and groaned as he read the text.

_John, where are you? – SH_

  
Busy writing an answer John did not notice his friend was reading his words up-side-down with a smirk on his lips. A few seconds later John's phone vibrated again.

_I asked where you are and not with whom. – SH_

Jealous? – JW  


_Of course not! I asked you an hour ago to get some milk. –SH_

You didn't notice I left then. Again. And you call yourself Consulting Detective... – JW

Obviously. So where are you? Tell me, you know I will find you eventually. – SH  


_Ever heard of privacy? You sound like a creeper. – JW  
_

_So what exactly is your point? – SH  
_

John closed his eyes in defeat for a moment.

_Let me have some, for God's sake! – JW  
_

_Fine, I'm on my way. – SH  
_

_Sherlock! – JW  
_

"He's quite possessive, isn't he?" asked Jamie, stirring with the spoon in his hot chocolate which was cooled by now. There was something like sincere concern in his eyes.

"Oh, yeah..." answered John and turned off his phone. "Hold on, who do you mean?"  
Jamie chuckled. "You're boyfriend, obviously." He chuckled even more as John blushed.  
"He's not- Sherlock's not my boyfriend!"

Several other customers turned their head around to them, most of them looking disgusted and appalled over John's outburst. Jamie shrugged. "If it helps you to convince no one but yourself that he isn't..."

John glared at Jamie and tried to change the topic of their conversation to Jamie's personal life but Jamie would not let him. Instead he managed to get some secrets out of John concerning his relation with Sherlock, who was just his flatmate.

"So he actually jumped off a building to safe your sweet arse? That's what I call friendship, dear me..." Jamie whistled quietly. "Did I say friendship? I meant love, of course."

He instantly fell silent as John looked like he wanted to punch him hard across his face. "Sorry," he mumbled in a small voice.

_Is there something I should know about Jamie? – SH  
_

John's head shot up and he made certain Jamie's concentration was occupied by something else before he hastily wrote back:

_He's like a son to me. –JW_

Only several minutes later Sherlock entered the café and was greeted by its owner, who offered him a cigarette but Sherlock declined, very much to John's surprise. He strode over to them, his eyes narrowing as he deduced some of the other customers.

Sherlock pulled a chair to their table and sat down onto it, observing every single detail about Jamie's past though it was a bit difficult (he would have never confessed this, mind you!) since Jamie was not wearing civilian clothes and John, who was watching his friends, was not even sure if Jamie had some anymore to be honest...

No one said a word and John blinked in slight confusion as he felt the questioning gaze and the curious glance of Sherlock and Jamie resting upon him. "What?"

Sherlock merely tilted his head in Jamie's direction like he wanted to ask for permission to begin his deduction or whether he wasn't allowed to utter his thoughts.

_He must really love you, John. Otherwise he wouldn't look at you like that. Platonic love, I get it._

John's phone buzzed and his cheeks turned pink as he read Jamie's text. God, these two would be the death of him. He sent a withering glare at Jamie.

"In case you're like your brother in any aspect, just go on with your deduction, as long as you don't forbid me further contact with John," said Jamie addressing Sherlock sounding a bit annoyed.

"You have no idea what you've just allowed him to do..." John said before he was cut off by Sherlock's fast flood of words, which did not even include a pause to take a breath. Jamie was unable to follow all of his sentences but a few made him gasped in shock.  
"You think they're mistaken and shouldn't promote you, obviously. You keep fingering the insignia of rank on your wrists. Hence you clearly have either a low self-confidence or are quite modest, though it's more likely that you have a problem with being self-confident as stated by the way you've buttoned your shirt this morning. Also you try to use as less space on and below the table as you can. But latter is a sign that you're in the army- out of the way and out of sight is what keeps you alive on the frontline. According to the way you're constantly glancing at your wedding ring you're really in love with the man and fear John might be repelled just like your birth-father, who kicked you eventually out after abusing you mentally and physically, not only because of your sexual preference but also because he blamed you for the early death of your mother. Car accident, then. You fear cars, probably triggered by the constant fear of IEDs too. So you try to avoid cars as good as you can. It rained a few hours ago as you met John- your combats are clean, though they were still dusty this morning, visible at the laces, since you just came back from duty, married your boyfriend and were busy being kidnapped and doing other things I shall not refer to any further. You didn't change into civilian clothes because you don't feel like a civilian, not anymore after you fought for your country for several years by now. It will be hard for you to adjust to "normal" life once you're fully back- you don't like noise it reminds you of the battlefield. Big crowds- a no go; you always feel a suicide bomber will be among them also proven by the choice of the table since John doesn't care about where exactly he sits when in public but you would like to have everything going on around you in view. Some people would call it paranoia. Utter silence and empty streets freak you out as well- might be a bad omen for an ambush. And neither do you like darkness because it triggers your PTSD- you experienced hours in the dark fearing for your life. No wonder really that you always carry a torch with you. However, none of that stops you from being a soldier and you do your best to hide the signs of it- the panic flashing in your eyes at my mentioning revealed you. You're actually more often serving on the field than in a hospital- your hands are steady but only if they have something to do. The thrill of danger and your yearning for it keeps you going when you think of putting an end to your life."

"That was... amazing," said Jamie flabbergasted, but looking paler than before, "quite extraordinary." He shifted under John's gaze.

Sherlock's deduction had revealed things Jamie had not told John and never intended to do so voluntarily.

"That's not what people normally say," replied Sherlock.

"What do people normally say?" Jamie prompted while barely preventing himself from touching the insignia on his wrists. Sherlock and John shared a glance and then said in unison "Piss off!"

"Pleasure to meet you, Jamie," said Sherlock, noting how happy these words John made. Like father, like son he thought. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to Jamie who, after swallowing hard under John's stern gaze, took one and lit it up.

"I thought you quit smoking..." John said slowly, his tone definitely pointing out his disapproval with Jamie's actions.

"I did," agreed Jamie, breathing out smoke. "But then I thought 'I'll never get old enough to die due smoking'. So why should I stop?"

Before John could react Sherlock stood up abruptly, muttering "Sorry, got to dash," and ran out of the café.

Instantly John and Jamie were on their feet and followed him out, leaving a twenty pound note on the table.

Neither of them asked where they went or what was going on. John didn't because he trusted Sherlock with his life and would've followed him everywhere, down to hell and back again if needed. And Jamie didn't because he was aware that asking any kind of question was a waste of time in an emergency and he knew that he could trust them blindly.

Sherlock guided them through several backyards, broken buildings, over roof tops and empty, narrowed alleyways. He was fast and smooth as always. Eventually he slowed down as they reached a yellow barrier tape which said "Crime scene – Do not cross", but he did not stop there. Instead he held it up and waved John and Jamie over to him, gesturing them to go through.

Hesitatingly Jamie followed John, who had grabbed his wrist dragging him over to where several police officers were standing obviously discussing matters. There was a motionless body lying in a puddle of blood midst of them. Some of the police officers turned their heads to them and frowned at Jamie, but they did not make an attempt to stop Jamie from investigating their crime scene.

"So that's what you normally do," said Jamie slowly. "Solving crimes and chasing after criminals too, I assume."

"Very good..." Sherlock smirked, his eyes already focused on the man. He surrounded him a few times, a triumphantly smile spread out on his face and his eyes were glinting in joy. As he stepped back he did not say a word but motioned John to have a look at the man.

_Mid-aged, upper class, civilian, doing drugs on a regular basis, killed by a shot near his aorta._  
Jamie's last thought was confirmed by John, who added the man died a painful death and bled out. He also mentioned the man had been voiceless.

"The shot was not supposed to hit him," Jamie muttered more to himself than to anyone, but Sherlock suddenly appeared next to him with an expectant look on his face.

"Of course it could have been a fight or an untrained assassin," Jamie went on, "but I doubt it. If you intend to kill someone for sure you either shoot their head between their eyes, right where their heart is or you shoot their neck- these places promise a quick and most certain death."

He lifted his eyes off the man and had a look at the roof tops. Just then John walked over to them, an unreadable expression on his face "According to the only witness the man might still be nearby."

"Obviously," said Sherlock. "The doors of the houses are all towards this alleyway and there aren't any backdoors or windows. The ambulance was just around the corner and they called the police immediately."  
John nodded and Jamie froze. "Third floor. Movement behind the curtains."

"Only a curious resident," Sherlock brushed over him and there were indeed some people looking out of the window down towards the crime scene. Together with a DI Sherlock went into the house, probably to inspect the flat from which the assassin had shot. Quite impressive they figured the right flat out on their own, but as saying goes every dog had its way.


End file.
